


Interpretation

by BlackCheckerRed



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dominant Dean, Dream Sequences, Inappropriate placement of punctuation, M/M, Massive emotional denial, Pre-Series, Run On Sentences, Uncomfortable guy touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-31
Updated: 2013-08-31
Packaged: 2017-12-25 04:37:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/948709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackCheckerRed/pseuds/BlackCheckerRed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was good, this was a good day, Dad was laughing in his quiet way, Sam was annoying in his usual way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Interpretation

Dean Winchester didn’t have his first wet dream until he was well into his eighteenth year.  
Not that he hadn’t experienced erections or masturbation. Dean in fact had a healthy curiosity regarding sex in general and with little to no role models emulating realistic interaction in his life, Dean had nothing in his formative years to turn to except the discarded ( and often bizarre) porn and fetish magazines invariably left behind by past occupants of the skeevy motel rooms his family inhabited.  
Dean watched family sitcoms occasionally, trying to gain a better sense of how relationships were supposed to work as opposed to just sex, but those experiences were so far outside his ken that he quickly dismissed them with derisive certainty as bullshit.  
Dean wasn’t a virgin, there had always been far to many sharp eyed females (as well as men) noticing his looks and circling him as if he were prey since he’d turned thirteen. It had pissed him off so much that right before he turned Seventeen he’d decided to take control of the situation.  
After a careful selection of the target, an older female (to Dean’s young eyes) working in the diner that they had frequented since arriving in the small community while Dad was tracking a ruguru, Amelia had met him at the end of her shift and they had walked the short block and a half to her apartment.  
Among soft, cotton and Tide scented sheets Amelia showed Dean how to regain the control that had begun slipping out from the fingers of an uncertain youth burdened with responsibilities beyond his years and secrets that lived in the quiet space between shaking hands and the taste of fear.  
Knowledge to heavy to burden another with, even in the sanctuary of sexual exploration that was Dean’s brief time with Amelia.  
Dean and Sam ate at the diner every night and Sammy never once complained, rather enjoying the novelty of a ‘regular’ place and Sam even liked Amelia who didn’t ignore him or talk down to him, passing on a battered copy of ‘White Fang’ that she used to read.  
Amelia used her employee discount to help with the cost of meals and Dean had a different slice of pie every night, comped.  
Dad wrapped up the case within the next two weeks.  
Dean never saw her again after they left town, never knew what became of her, though he never truly forgot her and though it wasn’t love, it was a memory that brought a smile to his face and a sensation of gratitude that occasionally lightened the harsh brutality of his own life.  
All in all, a good memory and most importantly, a lesson that allowed him to take control of his own sexual life, an attitude and a tool that he utilized in other aspects of his personality and approach to solving a problem.  
John taught Dean almost everything he knew but there were a lot of things Dean learned on his own and the lesson he took to heart during his brief interlude with Amelia was, to Dean’s mind simple: People are always going to want something from you; Ergo, decide how much, if anything, you’re going to share.  
Whether it be the current case or how to balance the demands of responsibility for his increasingly nosy and rebellious brother or juggling the expectations of a father that, though loved them deeply and was never abusive, was also a man who was fighting a battle that life had never prepared him for, simply thrust him into.  
John Winchester was a man lacking the ability to recognize his own obsession, disguising it with the language of ‘protecting the family’ and ‘fighting evil’.  
So a year and half after Dean had gotten his ‘control’ back, one that entailed an excruciating and blessedly short conversation with his father about protection and responsibility, and included a cold and detached discussion about the probably brief life of any of Dean’s unprotected offspring (and then what happens to your brother Dean?) Dean was actually feeling pretty good about things, about his life, being on track.  
Sammy flat out worshipped Dean, even when Dean was giving him good natured hell, because his little brother knew that Dean would fuckin’ break anyone who messed with Sam.  
Dad was proud of him and trusted him with Sam’s life and general well being, even when he was lecturing Dean about spoiling his little brother ‘cause let’s face it, Dean knew he did exactly that.  
Best of all, Dad trusted Dean at his back on a hunt.  
So Dean was feeling pretty good about life, aside from the dealing with murderous ghosts and supernatural monsters and although Dean never became immune to the lives that were lost during a hunt, he learned to acclimate quickly as a survival technique, he had no other options, it was sink or swim.  
So it was with a relatively light heart that he settled into his own twin bed that night in their latest motel room with a weekly rate. Sammy was in the adjacent twin bed, just at arm’s length away across the nightstand, dad was settled into the fold out couch, placed with its back to the beds and facing the t.v. on the opposite wall at the foot of the hide-a-bed, giving the boys a modicum of, though illusory, sense of privacy.  
The room was salted and all three had a variety of weapons stashed unobtrusively within hands reach if necessary. As far as Dean was concerned, this was as snug as a person could get and he drifted off to sleep with the sounds of his father quietly sipping at a beer and the lowered volume of the local news fading away.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
The water wavered between the bright sheen of blue, like an inland lake with a blue sky overhead and shimmering with the pearlescent gray of the ocean on an overcast day.  
The mix of snapping white caps that shimmered into the playful lapping of water nipping at the lakeshore was how Dean knew that he was dreaming. Dean let the dream flow around him and decided to flow with it.  
He was sitting on the shore but felt neither sand or rock against his body and although he could see rain hammering down on a rock jutting up from the ocean floor in the distance, above his own form he could only see the blue of sky and the white of clouds and in the dream this made him laugh.  
For some reason, his own laughter struck him as slightly hilarious and he had the odd dreamlike thought that he was happy, so he smiled.  
Dean saw that he was nude but since he liked his own body, it didn’t really bother him, so he only stretched his form to its full length, lying on his back and spreading his arms out widely to either side and that’s when his arm bumped into someone. Dean turned his head and saw Sam, grinning at him, also nude and Dean laughed again, not really surprised to see his little brother there, he’d already sorta known.  
Sam lay prone, body shifted towards Dean and with one stick thin arm pointed up into the sky, at the strange differences there, between the skies.  
“Did you see how that’s gonna happen, D”? Sam asked, eyes trained on Dean, but Sam’s arm started to waver a bit, still held aloft and Dean had the strange thought that Sammy’s arm swayed like a breeze buffeted stalk or rather, weaved like a hooded Cobra.  
Dean tore his eyes away from Sam’s hypnotic appendage and back to Sam’s face and felt a not unpleasant shiver pass over his frame when he met his brother’s hazel sharp gaze and said “ Its ok Sammy, you’ll grow into it”.  
Dean hadn’t meant it to be funny, he didn’t really know what he’d meant, but Sam seemed to think the non sequitur hilarious because he burst out laughing.  
The laugh that meant that Dean had knocked the joke out of the park for a home run to amuse the brat, the laugh with a dorky little snort at the end that always signaled shared happiness without malice.  
Dean smiled, tentative but then true before joining his own laughter with the sound of Sam’s uninhibited joy, Dean liked hearing their voices mingled together and riding the air.  
Sam, still chortling, asked “Grow into what Dean, the sky”? Sam’s arm dropped to his side and Dean thought the words ‘boneless’ and ‘lifeless’, and another shiver passed across his frame, cold and Dean thought that the rain from the ocean must have come up on them.  
Dean turned to look up but with Sam laughing beside him he still only saw azure sky and impossible cottony white clouds. Dean replied almost absently “Only your head bitch, the rest of ya’s gonna stay that shrimpy”.  
Dean was unprepared for the knees and elbows landing with a definitive ‘splat’ into his middle and only distantly heard Sam’s cry of “Cocksucker !” shouted with the ferocity of a poorly planned surprise attack.  
But like everything else in this dream, all the edges had been softened, Sam’s shout muffled while the playful intent was ringing in its clarity.  
The hazardous angles and sharp points that his waking, conscious, mind associated with the dangers of a Sam in actual motion were, in Dean’s dream, Sam landing with an impact that for some reason Dean wanted to feel more of.  
Dean laughed, amused and slightly surprised, he’d never heard Sam use that word before and immediately rolled his brother onto his back, utilizing his own superior mass to try and pin him.  
Sam, in the way of dreams, became suspended in the ephemerous state of something achingly desired yet constantly on the cusp of almost being caught in Dean’s grasp.  
Dean and Sam wrestled by the lake that was in the ocean surrounded by the forest and blue sky with the impossible clouds, their movements gentler than what they employed while sparring under their father’s critical gaze, yet no less hungered for the heat of a win.  
Dean began to feel a poignantly familiar sensation that he couldn’t place a name to.  
Every time he tried to close his hands around Sam, to put his hands on him, Sam seemed to have developed the ability to remain in constant connection along the length of Dean’s frame without giving his older brother the opportunity to achieve actual purchase.  
Dean’s frustration mounted and he knew that his hands, legs, hell his very frame was turning itself into the punishing and formidable weapon he was trained to be, Dean didn’t want to hurt his brother, he just wanted to pin Sam down beneath him, beneath his body so that he could hold Sam still, just for a moment.  
Dean needed to tell Sam something, give him something and Dean knew, in the throes of his dream that Sam wanted just as desperately to give something to Dean in return.  
If his little brother would only hold still long enough for Dean to get them both to fit just right, then they would both be able to give each other , say to each other…whatever it was Dean and Sam were trying to say.  
Sam fought him and it felt as though he were fighting against Dean’s flesh to get to Dean, Sam trying just as hard to get them to line up just right so that they could say something important.  
Dean finally got Sam’s legs locked down by sliding between them and hooking his own legs around the outside of Sam’s calves, effectively locking out any but the frustrated and shallow roils of movement that limited Sam’s lower half.  
Dean hands were locked around Sam’s wrists and he pinned them above his head and splayed them on either side, Dean had angled his own chest up and away from Sam’s, only the lower half of their bodies pressed in tight.  
Though it was not deliberate on Dean’s part, Sammy had once bitten the meat of his pectoral muscle during a training session and Dean had been wary of it ever since.  
Sam shifted beneath him and Dean froze.  
He wondered if they had finally understood what their conversation was about, finally ready to hear what they were trying to say to each other, gaze locked on his little brother beneath him when he heard the loud shout of thunder coming in from the ocean, booming overhead but still muffled to Dean’s dream fogged senses.  
Then Dean heard the rumbling, thunderous sound shout his name.  
Tearing his eyes away from Sam while keeping the younger boy pinned, though in a uniquely odd way as Dean and Sam were the same size in Dean’s dream, he turned his head and now the ocean that was a lake that was an ocean….was a wide lake again.  
There was a man standing on the far side, to far away for any discernible features to be made out and Dean just got the impression of dark hair and a strong jaw.  
Dean blinked slowly, the man was shouting but the wind kept tearing away his words, gesticulating with his fists, not wildly but Dean perceived it as a threat never the less and tightened his grip on Sammy’s wrists and felt his hips grind down into Sam’s, spiking that oddly familiar tension to almost unbearable levels.  
Dean saw the man run his hands through his hair before clenching it in fistfuls, holding on, still shouting words that couldn’t reach Dean’s ears and Dean felt the tension thrumming through his own form begin to shift into something that also felt like fear.  
Then Sam moved beneath him, sinuous, rolling and almost unbearably…good, in some way and asked “Dean, what is he saying”?  
The timbre of Sam’s voice seemed to find that elusive line that made them fit just right together.  
The line that Dean had been searching for, Sam seemed to find with thunder and ease and waters that didn’t make sense and Dean couldn’t keep his eyes open because he was coming all over his little brother.  
Dean woke up in his motel room, in his twin bed, no lake, no ocean, no forest, just the hot spill of his orgasm still shooting along the length of his leg, heart hammering and a ragged groan caught in the very back of his throat.  
As the last haze of pleasure swept through him, leaving small, throbbing aftershocks in its wake, his mind was already sweeping through the dim room, automatically checking the status of the other occupants.  
The soft glow of the television screen casting the snow of end of day programming, making the room glow along the edges.  
Dad didn’t like to be in total darkness, ever. The things their family hunted could see in the dark better than any of them and though there were always concerns about what hung in late night shadows, it was literally the lesser of multiple evils.  
Sammy was out like a light and Dean was simultaneously relieved that Sam was still asleep and slightly disgusted while feeling one last barb of lust rip at his flesh at the sight of his sleeping brother.  
Dean looked towards his father’s sleeping area and knew that even if John had heard anything, the most dad would’ve done would be to assess their safety and then given his active and healthy eldest the privacy of pretending not to have noticed a thing.  
Dean sighed as the room reflected back at him the Winchester brand of normality that was his life, comparing it to the whole new level of highly unsettling “I will NOT turn into that” ringing inside his own head.  
Dean felt the muscle of his heart contract and shrivel with the cold of sorrow and pushed it aside, buried it all down deep and thought ‘Fuck’.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
The next morning, when Sam unceremoniously shoved his limbs of sheer bone into Dean’s side when he went to wake his little brother up, Dean was able to say, with a genuine smile free of the tinge of the previous night’s odd wakefulness, “ Up and at ‘em, bitch, there’s work and waffles to be done”.  
Dad huffed a laugh from across the room, while Sam, in an uncharacteristic display of nubile grace, bounded past Dean hollering, “First Shower”! snagging the bathroom door shut with a heel.  
Dad lumbered to his feet, stretching his arms in architectural forms until Dean heard the edges of bone and the pop of rope-ey muscles realigning themselves, he was smiling a bit.  
Unthinkingly, Dean imitated his father’s routine, stretching his muscles, needlessly, in imitation until finding his own growth and stretching his right leg repeatedly in the air until an audible pop relieved the strange ache.  
John Winchester’s hand came down in a surprisingly gentle nudge against the brush cut bristles atop his oldest son’s head and the tone of his voice seemed to encompass the world, when he said, soft and affectionate “Dean”.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Dean, trying to hide his smile under the glow of his fathers’ brief sign of unstinting affection, went and sat on the edge of his own bed, fishing for his boots and chuckling to himself.  
This was good, this was a good day, Dad was laughing in his quiet way, Sam was annoying in his usual way.  
Dean could smell the combined scents of his entire family in the close confines of their room and for a moment, this was good, this was perfect.  
This was his family.


End file.
